


Lunden Under Siege

by 5wedishchef



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: If yall want my sources hmu i got that good gud primary docs, as accurate as I can get it, historical piece
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2018-11-15 07:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11226327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5wedishchef/pseuds/5wedishchef
Summary: Blood for blood, that was the way of both Saxon's and Danes. The massacre of St. Brice's night would mean the end of the tenuous peace that had existed between the two. The question wasn't whether or not the Danes would attack--they would--but instead, what the English king had been thinking. Arthur prayed the land could withstand a siege long enough that the Danes would loose interest, however the chances of that were slim at best.When it came to battle, proprieties were tossed aside and Saxon's proved as blood thirsty as Danes.[Historical piece on the siege of Lunden]





	1. Warnings

              _What is one to do, when a king will not listen to his Witan? What is one to do, when they are ignored in the presence of kings? What is one to do, when the brunt of the suffering will fall not to the king’s shoulders, but their own? Sit and wait, in the chill of the castle it seems._

              Arthur gripped the cold stone of the sill until his knuckles went white. The view of the inner courtyard was uninspiring in the milky light of an early morning. Even the birds did not seem to sing with their usual rigor. He had been pacing his quarters for days, refusing food and water—only leaving to go to the alter to pray. He could hear the men speak of how the Lord Arthur practically slept there, but these men did not understand the danger that crept closer to the heart of England. Up until now, the raiding Danes, the King of Denmark and his men, were just a distant thought that the Witan discussed endlessly. They had struck at Lunden before, when it was known as Lundenwic and from there the battles seemed ceaseless. He was unsure of their exact location, but the Danes were afoot nearby. Sleep evaded him, food made him sick, company was only an irritation. And so, Arthur did as Ælfric before him had done: he prayed.

              While it was not necessary to pray among the priests to be heard, Arthur cast one further look out into the streets of Lunden before making his way to the alter set aside for the king and his family to resume his prayers amongst the pews and the priests. Arthur felt pressured to find something, it was an internal desire that he could not place. He had no physical need, so it must be some emotional desire—some semblance of rest, perhaps? A safe place?

Arthur drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he turned down a corridor then decended the stairs. The cold months seemed to be upon them. He shook his head and made his way through the chilled halls of the great fortress that rested in Lunden’s heart. _There is no place to hide from the Danes, especially not in a church._

…

              _Dear Lord God in Heaven, I pray… Grant me the strength to survive this ordeal. Give me the courage to overcome, to stand strong in the face of these hardships. And instill within me faith. Faith that the men of my land will rise to this occasion. Faith that the ensuing battle only renews belief and dedication to You, Lord God._

              Arthur’s eyes opened slowly and his gaze drifted upwards. His knees burned and his back ached, he had been holding his position for whoever knows how long. His tongue flicked across dry, cracked lips before he spoke aloud, “Lord God, I beg of you.” There was a pause, then, “Amen.”

              His voice carried and those praying raised their eyes if only for a moment to see Arthur. Mist and weak light streamed in through the window, casting shadows onto his already uneasy face. He felt eyes on him; a respected and feared ealdorman of England, known for his quick wit and agility in battle stood unable to still his hands and nerves. A chill seemed to blow through the room, whether from the northern winds or the palpable fear Arthur was exuding or a biting combination of the two. Arthur stood too fast, as his head was swimming upon reaching his feet. His thoughts briefly paused, perhaps he was in need of food. _Surely not…_

              He stumbled, but not too far. A young monk caught him by the elbow, steadying him before quickly letting go and bowing his head. Arthur gave a brief smile in thanks and was about to retire before the monk caught his arm once more. The boy looked far too old for his years, fear does that to a person it would seem.

“Lord Arthur…” The monk began.   
“Yes, brother?”   
“Are the rumors true? The Danes… They’ve returned?” The boy’s eyes seemed to be rolling. Arthur gave him a tight-lipped nod. “What are we to do, Lord? I—I fled Northumbria once before,” His voice was no louder than a harsh whisper.

At the mention of Northumbria, Arthur felt as if he had been willed to droop his shoulders, but he fought it and held in his sigh. Northumbria was one of the many stops on the Pagan’s warpath against England. The taste and smell of blood remained strong in his mouth and whenever brought to mind, only worsening when brought back to mind. They raided towns, slaughtered hundreds, and were paid off by the churches to leave. The Pagans gouged the reserves of silver meant to aid spreading God’s grace. And to that end, it was not working. It is a rare moment when warriors have the mind for peace. The Vikings marched on, and the blood of God-fearing Saxon men flowed like the tide. Hundreds fled to the capital… Orphans, widows, families—they fled to the great city of Lunden. It was as if the Danes followed the scent of fear—and it led them to the King, to Lunden.

 “We do all we can: we pray to the one true God, we accept his punishment for our sins.”  
“Do we fight?” The monk asked softly.

              Arthur paused. There had been so much bloodshed.  A single kingdom, England united under one king was not a small task by any means. So many fyrds had been raised—against the Danes, the Scotts, the Irish, and one another. For one so young, the Spirit of England felt unearthly tired.

“We pray, brother. God has yet to desert us and unless He sees us lacking, in faith or otherwise, He will continue to bless us.” Arthur set a hand upon the young monk’s shoulder. “Pray, brother—.”  
“I am called Aldwyn,” the monk inserted quickly, “Lord Arthur.” He added hastily, bowing his head.  
“Pray for us, brother Aldwyn. We are in great need.”

              With that, Arthur turned to inquire of the king, Ethelred. He had much on his mind, but all thoughts of preservation and negotiation began to fade as a tightness in his chest began to grow. Oppressive and unrelenting, Arthur tasted metallic, hot fear in his mouth. His spit grew thick and his heart rate began to pick up. It was all he could do to not sprint to the throne room.

_The lawless heathens._

…

              Hours later, all the bells of Lunden were tolling for all the able-bodied men of Lunden to prepare for battle. Arthur, gaunt as marble moved through the halls like a specter. He was prepared to greet this force head-on. God willing, the Kingdom of England would remain. The priests across Lunden had been instructed to pray and the Saxon men were to fight, as Saxons did. Men hurried past him, seeking to defend the fortress, its wealth, and the king. Arthur fought past them; he felt like a fish, fighting upstream.

              Finally, the discord seemed to calm and Arthur was free to run to the stables. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he skidded in, startling a testy grey stallion. He shouted for his horse to be readied as he began putting on his leathers. A stable hand assisted him in buckling his armor while his horse was readied. Time moved both inordinately fast yet tremendously slow while Arthur and the stable hand fumbled with the buckles. His armor was not fully without decoration or glitz, but this was not some diplomatic meeting. It was unlikely that there would be any talks of peace. He was dealing with Danes after all, and if the tremor in his eye told him anything, the Danes brought their Spirit with them. _Kjartan._

              Arthur’s lips curled as he clapped his gloved hands together, allowing the boy to fasten his belt to his hips. For a time peace had prevailed with the Danes. It had been precarious, but it had been peace. The raids had ceased and from Wessex, there was growing stability. It was from this that Arthur found his strength. Now, Ethelred endangered them all. Humans lived short lives and were prone to forgetting the missteps of their forefathers. Arthur swung himself onto the back of his horse.   
_That is why they write things down_ , he thought with venom.   
“Where do the heathens attack from?” He called out, spurring his horse forward.

“The west gate, Lord Arthur!” A voice called out.

              And then he was flying—flying through the streets of Lunden. His thoughts raced almost as fast as he moved. Born of the tribe of Wessex, he remembered it all. The raids were more like massacres, the Danes commanded their kingdom and the Christians were slaughtered like pigs before a great feast. Ethelred remembered nothing. But it was no matter. The Danes were vicious and not to be underestimated. But the Saxons were just the same when necessary. God willed the Danes to their walls. God punished them for their sins and Lunden would accept the wrath of the Father because they were _devout_.

              Lunden was sprawling, there was hardly a way to take the full city. The fight would last weeks. Arthur smiled, ever so slightly. God is good, settling the king in this city and not another, less defendable one.

…

              Arthur stood atop the west ramparts, surrounded by archers. He surveyed the land below him. There was no visible army of Danes, but fires smoked in the distance and messengers told tales of a Viking army amassed a few miles out. Instead, a party of two stood at the gate. The city was on guard. Arthur found himself slightly irked, two men and the entire Kings Guard shits themselves…

“They are alone, Lord. They wait to meet with a king’s messenger,” the head of the king’s guard made himself known beside Arthur. Arthur nodded in acknowledgement. His mouth was dry.

              The two men on the ground before him were dressed for war, that was, however, the way of the Danes. Sucking in a deep breath, Arthur gave a firm nod to the men around him then began walking towards the staircase.

“If even their horse flinches, make them to resemble a hedgehog,” Arthur said, mirthlessly. “With me,” he barked to two lords who stood idle at the foot of the stairs, “We see what they demand.”

“And if their demands are absurd?” The older of the lords questioned, eyeing Arthur as he mounted his horse.  
“Then we show them that we’re Saxon’s,” Arthur’s irritation was evident, “We refuse and prepare to defend the city and King Ethelred at any cost,” Arthur added, his gaze piercing.

              The men nodded and spoke their agreement, further wasting Arthur’s time. When the three were finally ready, a smaller door in the gate was opened and the three rode out to meet the heathens.

 

              It took but a moment to note—though he already was quite aware—Kjartan Odinson sitting upon his horse. He was easy to spot, he rode as if his horse shit gold pieces stamped with his likeness. That being said, his tattooed face and long hair distinguished him from any of the lords who rode in a similar manner. The man beside him was Ugga the Fat. Equally recognizable, his horse seemed to bend beneath him.  The two were washed, at the very least. A small blessing was a blessing all the same. Still, the presence of Kjartan and Ugga only substantiated the rumors that were flew from Sandwich, that Ivar the Boneless was nearby. The fearsome Danish warlord was vengeful, trying to outdo the legacy of his father.

“What brings you to Lunden, Kjartan Odinson?” Arthur’s voice was sharp, but his heart was beating out of his chest.  
“Arthur—is that the name you’ve kept? You Saxon change your names with the setting sun.” Kjartan sat back into his saddle, looking completely at peace. “You are sweating, I should hope I does not freeze where it beads on your brow—,” he began a hearty laugh.

“I will only ask once more, Lord Kjartan. What brings you to Lunden.”

              Kjartan made a face, and a derisive smile spread across his lips as he took him in, the young spirit of the land. Courageous, bred of Saxon blood. That being said, the Saxon only proved themselves to be, time and time again, weak. Try as he might, Arthur looked _afraid_. And while Kjartan was not a god as he was likened to, he thrived on fear and chaos. He dropped the smile.

“Lord Arthur, you are quite familiar with your holy saints, are you not?” Kjartan asked, leaning forward in his saddle.

              Looks were exchanged between the two lords behind Arthur. This line of questioning would lead to a dangerous conversation.

“I am quite familiar.” Arthur responded pointedly. “Your point of all this?”  
“Indulge me, Arthur…” Kjartan drawled, glancing over at Ugga, who seemed bored. “Now you know all the festivals, correct? Do you partake?”  
“At times. They are most holy events, Kjartan.”  
“And St. Brice’s night?” The two Spirits met eyes and the open space felt as if lightening had stuck just outside the Lunden gates.  “Did you partake then?”  
“I had nothing to do with that, Kjartan—There are deaths and breaches of peace at all times, your Danes do so regularly. This is no different,” he began, only to be silenced by Ugga’s raised hand and shaking head.  
“Those who break the peace are not condoned by our King, Lord Arthur,” Ugga the Fat spoke up, his hands crossed lazily before his distended belly.

Kjartan nodded in agreement.

“He’s quite right. The acts of a few, power hungry men can be ignored—forgotten—quelled even. But when a King lashes out in such a manner it cannot be ignored. Can they, Ugga?” Ugga shook his head no.

“Right, then. Surrender us Lunden and your King or die, Arthur.”  
“You have negotiated in the past, you will negotiate again now,” one of the lords moved to stand beside Arthur.

“And you, who are you?” Kjartan asked, with a toss of his head.  
“I am the Ulfctyle Snillingr, ealdorman of East Anglia. We look to barter a truce.”  
“Ealdorman Ulfctyle, I remember you well. Your men fought valiantly in East Anglia,” Kjartan grinned widely, showing his sharpened incisors, “That being said, there shall be no bartering. As we've said; surrender or die with the rest of Lunden.”


	2. Ethelred the Unready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is forced to face the reality of the situation. WC: 1527

Kjartan’s statement held no malice. He was aloof, sitting easily in his saddle. The threat rung flatly in his ears as Arthur surveyed his men. They were not stupid to fear the wrath of Kjartan and his men. They had seen the devastation years before. Devastation that spared no soul—no woman, child, nor priest left alive. The smell of death and putrid flesh had filled his nose for weeks. He set his jaw.

 At first, they had been paid off; given land and gold. All they could ask for. Then, as the kings of Mercia and Wessex began their infighting, unrest grew, and the towns people rose up. It was no surprise that they slaughtered the settlement with some light pressure from King Ethelred. The scent of old blood had not fully left him by the time the heathens returned. The godless men began their warpath quickly, Lunden in its sights.

“We are Saxons, we do not die so easily!” Arthur roared to his men.

              They yelled back, fists held high. But they were afraid: The smell of fear had been plaguing the city for days. There was not a single man or woman without fear in them inside the walls. It was for good reason. While the walls of Lunden were well built and reinforced, the city could not sustain itself through a long siege. It would be likely that many peasants would lose their lives to hunger this winter. But perhaps that would be a better death than what was to come. Arthur was unsure. Everyone was unsure.

              Arthur dismounted the stairs with his head spinning with the smell of piss, death, and something sickly—the smell of fear. The city was filled with a tangible miasma. Despite that, the city was in motion. The city began to prepare itself for a long, hard siege. Larders were already depleted from the early frosts, but they could survive for a few months. Hopefully they would outlast the Danes. Only time would tell.

              Arthur remounted his horse and launched into the street, wheeling through the tides of people. The Witan would be assembling to discuss the siege and plan—they should have planned this so long ago. Arthur knew he would escape from this battle with little physical harm, but the mental toll was already beginning to weigh heavily on him.  He thought of the Dane’s soul, Kjartan, he was brimming with manic energy and he inspired his men. He sat at ease with his men. Arthur had to hold his tongue in the Witan lest he tell the unconfident Ethelred to piss off. It was a miracle he’d made it this far without saying something.

              The ride felt shorter than usual. He dismounted in a hurry and shoved the reigns of the horse at a stable hand with a small grunt of thanks. Arthur had let himself be consumed with annoyance long enough that his general state of unease had left him. He felt like some of his energy had come back, even. Was that what fueled the state? Annoyance enough to scream at a King?

              He gritted his teeth and began through the falls at a quick clip as to not be late to the Witan. His mood was foul but before he could allow himself to find another topic to dwell on that wasn’t the oncoming siege, a decrepit member of the Witan grabbed his arm. Arthur stopped mid-stride and gave the elder his attention.

“Ah, Lord how may I help you?”   
“This talk, I fear, will go as we expect for it to.” The old man heaved a ragged breath, “If it does, you must plan to find the crown prince—Prince Arthur and bring him. Ethelred… Ethelred is unready as he has ever been. He will lose this battle as he has lost the rest.”

              Arthur went to shake his head: No, he would stay. He had to stay. He had known this was one of the few viable options to save the city, of course. All the time he’d spent sitting and thinking had revealed two options: lose the city with Ethelred or bring his successor and his army to the city. Ethelred’s army had but dissolved with Mercia—But the old Lord gripped his arm tighter. The two stared at each other with an intensity that impressed itself on him. Arthur’s gaze came back into focus as the Lord left him, continuing on to the throne room.

              Torn, Arthur felt the bile in his stomach rise. He understood that his charges extended far beyond Lunden, but a direct attempt to bring in a usurper would be treason. While Ethelred had never respected his views or opinions, he had the God-given right to do so. As did all the Kings of the past. God knew that humans did not learn quickly, thus he bestowed upon them with many challenges. Each seemingly more impossible than the last. It was a sign that God presided and watched them carefully.  Never one of his abandonment. With that thought in mind, Arthur realized he could find no peace in it.

 

              Stepping into the throne room, Arthur counted the number of Lords in attendance. All 13 stood, all dressed for battle. Yet the throne sat empty. Arthur felt the pit in his stomach grow just a little bit deeper as his heartrate rose. Every opportunity he wished to give the man, he’d let him down. Even as the heathen army stood outside their gates, Ethelred had to be waited on. He attempted to calm himself.

“Lords, I thank you for your diligence, I see we are all in attendance.” Ethelred swept in, his flowing robes standing apart from the armored Lords in his presence. Though not every King must fight by their men, Arthur took note and took pity on the city dwellers who had some kind of faith in Ethelred. The Unready.

“My King, with the winter being upon us, we have little to do but attempt to sit this out. Since Mercia, the Army has been scattered and there is no time to rally one.” The old Lord from before spoke clearly, his piercing eyes searching the faces of those in attendance.

“Preparing to withstand a siege will be in our best of interest,” another man spoke up, in the hopes that Ethelred would perhaps listen if the Witan was unanimous.

              Silence dragged on. Ethelred’s face seemed, if anything, annoyed at this inconvenience. “Weren’t we under the impression that they would stay back? Or be reasoned with?” The King turned his eyes on Arthur.

“They stated they would not, my King.” Arthur stated tersely, standing rigid.

“And did we not—” Ethelred began but Arthur couldn’t stand it.

“There is nothing to be done, my King. We are at their mercy. We have no army. They’ve destroyed the surrounding land and dispersed of any forming rebellion that could have helped us. Do you not see this? Have you not heard this in each of the Witan councils, my King?” Arthur’s unease and distress throughout the few weeks came to a head at the reluctance of this King to act. “King Ethelred, I implore you to see the situation for what it is. We have nothing to do but wait.”

“Yet you’re all dressed for a fight.” Ethelred pursed his lips at the crowd of men before him with a flippancy that made Arthur’s blood boil. The king waved a hand for a drink.

              Arthur and the rest of the Witan took it as a sign that they were dismissed. The old Lord watched him as he made his leave to his quarters. Ethelred needed more than a stern talk to level within himself that there was nothing to do within the city. Only God could assist Ethelred now—change his mind. But He was seemingly preoccupied with seeing the rest of Merica through this time. Rationally, Arthur agreed that no help would come from inside the city walls. But his urgent desire to protect the city was intense. The soul feels everything, but it is only in one part of the body at once. As the kingdoms across the island began to unite, the harder it became to keep every corner safe. Lunden was his heart.

              Unsure of when he arrived in his room, Arthur sat heavily on his bed. The years of famine and internal pain of knitting together a new identity was taxing on the young man. Summers had passed since he actually took the time to observe his appearance: yet he knew that he was haggard in apperance. Abandoning Lunden, his king, committing treason. Yet another weight for him to bear on his thin shoulders. At this rate he’d never get any taller, he’d just keep sagging under the weight of it all. He snorted at the thought and stood.

              He would simply have to try to stand taller. Maybe it would give him broader shoulders to carry it all.  He peered through the slotted window in his room into the courtyard. A flurry of movement was taking place as the palace prepared for siege. Arthur set a hand on a cool brick and gripped it until his knuckles went white. He was looking at nothing but seeing all that was to come.

              Lunden would not survive without assistance. It had been decided long before being brought to his attention; this was indeed the only option.

**Author's Note:**

> Lunden is the old English name for London. The city was so large that it was nearly impossible to launch a successful campaign to take it, and so the only way to actually take the city would be to starve it out.  
> Ealdorman is a status gifted to landowning lords  
> Since the update I've found more information and a more specific time period to get things cleaned up.  
> Every other week updates.


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